While he waited for permission to enter the meeting, he took a moment to study his surroundings. Additional trinkets from foreign travel stood out among the more mundane vases and clocks and paintings. It was an eclectic mix, and he found it appealing. If he spent any time at Tesling, he imagined his house would look rather similar. And of course he would have books, because Phillipa loved them.
Would she remain there if he secured sponsorship for another expedition? Would she wish to join him? Did he want her exposed to the dangers that he’d encountered on an almost daily basis? Bennett frowned. He wanted her in his life. His general approach to problems was that with the appropriate application of weaponry, they would work themselves out. Phillipa was much more complex and important than anything else he’d encountered, however. And he didn’t have any answers. None that left him feeling any easier, anyway.
The door opened again. “This way, Captain,” the butler said, gesturing him into the room.
From the servant’s face alone, Bennett knew that something was afoot. Anyone employed by Sommerset would have learned to school his expressions. The man hadn’t batted an eye when he’d first arrived with Kero on his shoulder. Bennett stepped forward.
Thirteen men were in the room. He’d met them before, when he’d first applied for their sponsorship of his Congo expedition. But the Association had eleven members. The other two, Lord Thrushell and his son, were new. And they’d clearly been in the room for a time.
“Have a seat, Captain,” the Duke of Sommerset said, gesturing him to the one empty chair at the large table.
“Was I in error about the time for the meeting?” Bennett asked. “You seem to have begun without me.”
“We wanted to discuss the matter of your outburst last evening,” Lord Talbott stated.
“Do you also want to discuss the reason for my outburst last evening?”
“Bennett. Sit down.” Sommerset sent him a hard look.
“If I’m going to be ambushed, I prefer to stand.”
“This is not an ambush,” Thrushell put in. “We of course want to discuss the entire matter of the expedition.”
“ We’?” Bennett repeated, his confidence melting into frustrated anger. “Are you on the Association board now?”
“I am.”
Damnation. “Ah. Congratulations, my lord.”
Langley evidently hadn’t had any reservations about seating himself. He lounged in the chair between his father and Lord Hawthorne, looking like a well-fed baboon unable to decide between napping and scratching his arse.
“I’ll begin, shall I?” David said, dropping a tattered book onto the table. “My journal.”
“Captain Wolfe, do you recognize it?” Hawthorne asked.
Bennett nodded. “I recognize it. I believe you’ll find some pages missing—Langley had a bout with incontinence.”
The Duke of Sommerset cleared his throat. “What is your complaint, Captain Wolfe?”
As far as Bennett knew, Sommerset was his only ally in the room. Not at all what he’d expected this morning. He hadn’t thought he’d be the conquering hero—not when no one but Sommerset had bothered to see him since his return—but what he sensed at the moment was…hostility.
“My complaint is that Captain Langley left the Congo four days after I received an injury, and that he took nine completed journals, authored by me, with him. Without my permission.”
“Captain Langley, do you have any of Sir Bennett’s possessions?”
“What are we, in the nursery?” Bennett muttered.
“I do not,” Langley said smuggly. “My book, Across the Continent: Adventures in the Congo, was written based—”
“Do you get royalties when you say the entire title?” Bennett asked.
“—based on my journal and my recollections. I never even saw Wolfe writing in anything resembling a journal.”
“Ballocks.”
“Captain Wolfe,” Lord Talbott chastised, “we are civilized gentlemen here. Please control yourself.”
“I am controlling myself. If I wasn’t, Langley would be dead.”
The duke sat forward. “That’s enough of that,” he said, the touch of a growl in his deep voice. “I would like to hear if you have any proof of this wrongdoing, Captain Wolfe.”
Bennett shook himself. Words now. Fists later. “We spent three years in the Congo. I filled nine journals with information on everything from rainfall to elevation to descriptions of plants and animals. My—”
“God, that sounds dull,” Langley interrupted with a chuckle. “This is your imagination, Bennett. Surely you can conjure something more exciting than that.”
“You couldn’t,” Bennett shot back at him. “Those things—well, the ones that didn’t take much intelligence to figure out—all appeared in that book of yours.”
“I was in the Congo, as well. Of course they appeared.”
Taking one step forward, Bennett reached the table and grabbed Langley’s journal. He flipped it open. “Let’s see how well David strips away Africa’s mysteries, shall we? ‘Everything is hot and wet and covered with thorns and vines,’” he read, dodging Langley’s reach. “ The damned natives smell, and the women are ugly.’” He looked up. “And that is… three months of observations, judging from the date of the next entry.”
“I said that the book is also based on my recollections.”
“It’s just a coincidence that I have thirty crates of artifacts and specimens waiting for me at Tesling, then, while you have…this.” Bennett tossed the journal back at him. “In addition to the coincidence that the monkey you so touchingly befriended tried to take off your ear last night. And that you didn’t see fit to bring her with you to England after I died. Hm. Ah, that bit didn’t happen either, did it?”
“I suppose you can say anything you like,” Langley retorted. “You have no proof.”
“I have an idea,” Bennett pushed, anger building in him like water behind a dam. “I enjoyed that sketch you did of Mbundi. Draw it again, why don’t you? In fact, we should each take a pencil and paper and see whose work more resembles the one in your book. Let’s do that now, shall we?”
“I—”
“And we can’t forget the two books I wrote before we ever met. I don’t suppose you kept any of the papers you wrote at Cambridge. Or that you’d want these men to compare them to the language of your book. Or your book to my books, which is where the closest resemblance lies.”
“That’s sufficient, I think,” Lord Hawthorne said.
“I agree,” Sommerset commented, his own eyes glinting. For a brief moment Bennett wondered which of them was closer to jumping Langley.
“The difficulty with deciding whether Captain Wolfe had any journals and whether Captain Lang ley knows of their whereabouts,” Lord Thrushell said in a cool voice, “is that the book has gained us all an unprecedented level of popularity. It is my understanding that both the scientific community and Prinny are clamoring for another expedition to begin, and for my son to lead it.”
“Your son couldn’t lead a horse around a track,” Bennett retorted.
“Make your point, Thrushell,” the duke asked, over the growing muttering. “Because we were supposed to receive research materials and artifacts from the expedition. Captain Bennett has reiterated that he will be sending us specimens once he returns to Tesling. From Captain Langley we’ve received…applause, I suppose.”
“Has the Africa Association ever been the focus of so much fame and acclaim?” Thrushell countered. “Not since Mungo Park’s return, I’ll wager. Are any of you willing to let such an opportunity go by in exchange for—for what? For pointing a finger and saying this man wrote one word and that man wrote two other words?”
“An uproar over the authorship of Langley’s book would consume any discussion and deflect the attention from any accomplishments made,” Hawthorne put in. “And we would all be subjected to ridicule. Perhaps even by Prinny. Our reputations and that of the Association could s
uffer. Would suffer.”
“Does the book contain any lies, Captain Wolfe?” Lord Thrushell demanded.
“About who the bumbling fool of the expedition was, yes.”
“Any factual untruths, Captain.”
Bennett clenched his jaw so hard the muscles creaked. He could lie, but that would put him in the same bucket of slop that Langley already occupied. “No. Dramatic flairs and hyperbole, but no lies.”
“I won’t sit for this,” Talbott snapped.
“I wouldn’t either,” Hawthorne put in, “if Captain Wolfe hadn’t exhibited such poor behavior last night. That, taken together with his damaged reputation and the overall furor calling the book’s authorship into question would cause, is far outweighed by the positive publicity and interest and donations we’ve received because of Captain Langley’s new fame.”
“Donations?” Bennett snarled. “You mean that Lord Thrushell has bought your silence.”
“He hasn’t bought mine,” Sommerset cut in, though he looked more resigned and disgusted than self-righteous.
“Why don’t we take a vote?” Thrushell suggested. “Do we admit that Captain Langley’s book is a perjury? Well, no it’s not, but he didn’t write it, except that he did and only borrowed a few details from a man believed to be dead. Do we admit that the Association was wrong to support the popular, well-respected son and heir of a well-respected and very generous earl? That Bennett Wolfe, a supposedly-deceased, hostile rogue who can’t conduct himself with any sort of propriety and decorum, is our man?”
“And wouldn’t you be hostile, if upon returning to England after an extended time away, you discovered that your reputation and your work had been stolen from you?” Sommerset rose, walking to one of the room’s tall windows to gaze outside.
“I thought he was dead,” Langley protested.
“Yes, of course I would be angry.” Sighing, Lord Hawthorne sent a glance around the room—at everyone but Bennett. This was bad. Very bad. “But for the good of the Association and its future, I believe we need to be…discreet.”
The others were nodding. Bennett’s chest felt hollowed out, as though these men had ripped everything out of him, heart and soul. “You’re condemning me to remain here in England, then, with no reputation.”
“I think we can work in a word here and there to indicate that perhaps Captain Langley was having a bit of fun with his description of you.” Thrushell’s smug expression made Bennett want to hit him. “Should we put this to a vote? Or does anyone disagree? Sommerset?”
“I abstain,” the duke snapped. “There is no reason for a vote here.”
“You bloody hypocrites.” Bennett turned on his heel and left the room. Bloody, bloody hell. He should have realized. The laws of London were nothing like those of the jungle. In the Congo, at least there had been a certain logic. Survival was always a good thing.
“Captain.”
Bennett stopped halfway out Ainsley House’s front door. “I don’t think you want to talk with me right now, Sommerset.”
“No doubt.” The duke joined him in the doorway and then led the way onto the front drive. “I am outvoted.”
“You didn’t vote.”
“There was no point, except that I look better by abstaining than by losing outright.”
Clearly Sommerset had spent more time in the jungles of London than he had. “At least you’re honest.”
“Bennett, you know I believe you.”
Bennett snorted, gesturing for a groom to bring Ares up. “I’m touched.”
“I’m also going to give you some advice. Take it, or don’t. But listen to it.” The duke scowled. “I suggest that you keep your opinions about Langley and his book to yourself. Otherwise you’ll have the Association after you, and you’ll never find your way out of England. They are all men with a great deal of influence. Second, f—”
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but go shit yourself.”
“Second,” Sommerset hammered in a harder voice, “find your damned journals and show them to the London Times, or go home to Tesling and learn how to be a landowner. Or fund your own damned expeditions with your charm. That should see you to Brussels.”
The duke returned to the house. Bennett wanted to curse him again, but one thing stopped him. Sommerset was correct. The journals were still his way out of England. And fleetingly he wondered which way Phillipa would want him to proceed.
Chapter Seventeen
Langley and I are the first white men here. David expected we would be greeted as gods. I’m less surprised to find that the natives think us sickly, and require visual proof that we are indeed men. Some rules hold true everywhere—one good poke with a stick is curiosity; more than that is ill manners. And rather uncomfortable.
THE JOURNALS OF CAPTAIN BENNETT WOLFE
I hope you’re not angry with me,” Livi whispered, taking Phillipa’s arm as the two of them left Eddison House the next morning. “You know he would have ruined you, Flip. Yes, you think he’s fascinating, but what if Mama or Papa had seen you sneaking into the morning room? It would have been you to face the consequences. Not Sir B—”
“For goodness’ sake, Livi, stop talking and take a breath before you faint.”
“But I want to know if you forgive me.”
Phillipa sighed. “I forgive you.” She had a strong suspicion that she wouldn’t have felt as charitable if she hadn’t managed to get Bennett into her bed, but she had, and the fact that Livi had voluntarily faced off against the formidable adventurer spoke well for her sister. “And you gave me the lilies, which was nice.”
“I shouldn’t have given them to you. Bennett Wolfe is a beast. And even if you marry him, he’ll still be a beast.”
“He isn’t a beast.”
“Flip, he climbed through the window.”
Settling for a noncommittal nod, Phillipa increased her pace a fraction. Going for a walk had been Olivia’s idea, more than likely her way of finding a moment for the two of them to speak in private. The problem was, it was just after ten o’clock. Bennett was speaking with the Africa Association. And her heart was beating as fast as if she’d run all the way to Marathon.
“You do realize that if you want him to continue courting you, you cannot give in to his seductions. A man may say things, but it’s a test. He’ll never offer for you if he knows you’ll…succumb without first having a ring on your finger.”
Phillipa snorted.
“I’m serious, Flip.”
Attempting to gather her thoughts back in, she took her sister’s arm. “I know you are. And silly as most courtship rules are, I do understand that you’re looking out for me.” She sighed. “The lilies were very pretty.”
“Yes, but they’re only flowers. You must trust me. I have more experience with these things than you do.”
Her sister most decidedly did not have more experience with men than she did. Not any longer. In fact, Phillipa reflected, she could more than likely tell Livi a few things that would make her blush. “I have listened to your advice,” she said aloud, wishing she had a pocket watch to check the time, “and I’m most definitely not ready to give Bennett up.” Even the thought of not seeing him again left her queasy.
“Have you spoken with Mama or Papa yet this morning?” Olivia continued, waving at a passing acquaintance. “They weren’t happy with what happened at Langley House last night.”
She wasn’t, either. “Kero was trying to protect Bennett, I think. And then Bennett had to protect Kero.”
“But Captain Langley nearly lost an ear. And then Captain Wolfe flattened him.”
Rather effectively, too. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You may have to, when we return.”
Phillipa sighed. “Then let’s make this a long walk, shall we?”
Livi agreed. At least walking and chatting about Paris fashions—a mysterious and elusive topic, as far as she was concerned—kept her from dwelling on what Bennett was doing. By her guess, Langley sh
ould be apologizing for literary theft, and the Africa Association would be placing Bennett at the top of their list for leading the next expedition, whenever that might be.
“Are you listening to me?” Livi asked, breaking into her reverie.
She shook herself. “Mostly,” she conceded.
“What has you so distracted?”
Well, how was she supposed to answer that? By admitting that Bennett had spent most of the night with her, and that she was very concerned that, however satisfying she found the situation, he couldn’t seem to wait to leave on another adventure? “You may be accustomed to having beaux,” she said aloud, “but it’s a bit unusual for me.”
“Especially ones who climb in through the morning room window,” Livi added.
“What?” a low voice squawked.
Phillipa jumped as Lord John Clancy swung down from his horse behind them. Oh, good heavens.
“Who’s climbing through windows?” he asked.
“Your friend. Captain Wolfe.” Olivia folded her arms across her chest, the image of affronted sisterhood all over again.
“He climbed into your morning room? Did he forget how to use a damned door?”
“Well, how are we supposed to know that?” Olivia retorted. “And good morning to you, John.”
With a swift grin, he took Livi’s hand and bowed over it. “Good morning. I do not climb through windows, if that ever comes into question.”
Olivia grinned back at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Oh, please.” Phillipa resumed her walk, heading back now toward the house. If they continued any further in the opposite direction, they would end up in the Thames.
“Flip,” John said, speeding up to catch her, “if Bennett is harassing you, please tell me. I’ll have a word with him, no matter what sort of wild animals he’s capable of wrestling.”
“He’s not harassing me,” she blurted, annoyed. “He’s courting me, just as he said. No one believes it, I know, but he actually likes me.”
The Care and Taming of a Rogue Page 22